


The Journey of Wells and Roads

by kennedygailparker



Series: The Journey of Wells and Roads [1]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Lovers to Friends to Lovers, Post Bartlett Administration, Post-Series, Romance, Spoilers:seasons 1-7, The Journey of Wells and Roads Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kennedygailparker/pseuds/kennedygailparker
Summary: He writes everything. He writes his penance. He writes fiction about the White House.He dedicates five books to her before she shows up at his doorstep.





	The Journey of Wells and Roads

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Back Pages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792982) by Delightfully Eccentric [archived by [westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist)]. 
  * Inspired by [in New York, this is the shortest day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222) by [not jenny (mazily)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/not%20jenny). 
  * Inspired by [when the faith grows old, and life turns cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/153414) by [universe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/universe/pseuds/universe). 

> A/N: I recently watched The West Wing for the first time. I’m sure many of you can relate to the obsession that has since followed. I struggled with the later seasons of the show, but as I watched Richard Schiff’s final episode, this fic began to write itself. 
> 
> The Journey of Wells and Roads was inspired by the following works:
> 
> My Back Pages by Delightfully Eccentric  
In New York, this is the Shortest Day by Not Jenny  
When The Faith Grows Old, and Life Turns Cold by Universe
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I have not decided whether or not I want to continue this story or add more one-shots in this verse. If you have opinions either way, questions, or comments please drop me a note at the end! If you want more, let me know what you want to see next.
> 
> P.S. I am looking for prompts, recommendations, and betas, if you’re interested you can drop me a line at my tumblr seekennedywrite. 
> 
> References to Hamilton intentional. Heavy allusion to and nuance borrowed from Institutional Memory.
> 
> Disclaimer: They are not mine (though I wish they were). The West Wing, it's stories, dialogue, and characters belong to its wonderful creators and related companies.

** _The Journey of Wells and Roads_ **

They said writers had ink running through their veins and that politicians had money running through theirs. Toby had never been made of money. His veins were more ink than blood these days.

Columbia_ was _ a nice place to spend some time. It wasn’t the White House, nothing ever would be, but it worked. 

Teaching, shaping a new generation of thinkers - of philosophers - was more gratifying than Toby had thought it would be. It was an exercise that inflated his ego as much as it humbled him. Studying and debating with his students was a substitute for arguing with Sam and Josh. The hours he spent writing comments on student’s papers reminded him of painstakingly crafting messages. Creating lessons, writing text books and articles and papers, satisfied the same drive inside him that had authored policy and crafted change in the world. 

He missed writing speeches. Articles and papers couldn’t take the place of the immediate gratification of seeing his words affect a group of people, didn’t touch the unique feedback loop he had once created with an audience, with the world. These days he prodded students into becoming independent thinkers. He didn’t change minds and shape opinions the way he once had. 

It felt like starvation, like he had to do twice as much just to stay sane. 

So he wrote more. He wrote everything. What would’ve once taken only a single speech now left him gaping and hungry after stacks of pages. He filled the need inside of him by writing more. He filled the need inside him with millions of pages. 

He wrote errant thoughts on cocktail napkins, quotes on post it notes, and internet comments that were then debated on _ The Situation Room _ and _ Capital Beat. _ He wrote speeches for senators and dignitaries. He wrote articles that were printed in the _ New York Times _ and _ Political Science Quarterly _ and in _ The Washington Post. _

He wrote without an end, without a goal, and as he wrote, he discovered himself. He wrote and discovered his ego, his hubris, his guilt, and his regrets. 

** **

(“_ You’re kicking me out?” “Yeah.” _)

He wrote speeches and papers and articles.

And books. 

He wrote non-fiction about the Declaration of Independence, about government, about bias and assumption, about punctuation. 

Alongside his Magna Carta were shelves of fiction. 

He’d never envisioned himself as a fiction writer. He lacked the soft, fragrant imagery that permeated Sam’s writing and the wild, whimsical rhyme and onomatopoeia that Will had so readily used. Now, when he sat down with his pen, he found he had stories to tell and the ability to make them captivating. This was how he changed minds. He shaped truth into something interesting, something palatable.

He started with a few children’s stories. They were bright and slender volumes. He wrote one about a little girl who dreamed life into space, using her imagination to populate barren wastelands (_ To my brave and vibrant Molly, may you know no boundaries.). _ He wrote one about a little boy who went on adventures through the sewers of New York to find baseballs and save the Yankees ( _ To my sensitive and strong Huck, may you follow your dreams) _ . He wrote one about a little girl who solved droughts by bringing rain and water to scorched forests. She built roads out of blocks and wooden train tracks. ( _ To a little girl I hope to one day know, may you color outside the lines, just like your mother.) _

He wrote a few children’s stories and then he wrote adult fiction. He published those under a new name, David Zachary. It fooled no one. Andy sent him a picture of herself laughing in the book store, one of his novels raised toward the camera like a trophy. _ You’re not fooling anyone Pokey, _the note said. 

He wrote volumes about a rag-tag group of political insiders who broke the rules to change the world. They loved each other and fought each other. They were bold, bright, raw, and beautiful. They were flawed people doing their best and achieving more than could ever actually be hoped for.

At the center of the novels was a woman.

It always came back to a woman.

(Toby had just spent most of his life coming back to the wrong one).

He wrote her as she was, not who she wanted to be. He wrote her as smart but sometimes hard, strong but filled with so much emotion it blinded her. She was spirited and warm and beautiful. She was cutting and distant and tired.

She was introduced in the second chapter of his first novel. She was a consultant to hollywood producers. She joined Ted Barlow’s campaign for president. (Toby had never been good with names and really, what was the point in being creative. He was crafting his truth into the narrative he wanted it to be, but he wasn’t hiding it from the world.) After she tripped and tipped sideways into her pool, emerging as an ethereal goddess in a see-through, water drenched white dress, she told Zachary, her former lover, that she’d help him change the world. After all, she explained in dialogue across the next few pages, it's what they had dreamed about, cuddled together in his New York apartment half a decade before. 

Publishers fought for the book. He settled on a friend of his Rabbi.

He published one. Then two. Then three.

And then he sent them to her. First editions wrapped in brown paper. Her address sketched across the coarse paper and a dedication on the inside of the first novel:

_ To the woman who ran away and taught me to come back to what really mattered. _

And the second:

_ My California Girl, who fixed our world for the next generation. Who created roads but drove out of reach. _

And the third:

_ My Jeanie, who carries my heart inside her soul. You blow us all away. _

He doesn't check his phone hundreds of times an hour, flipping it in and out of his pocket or check the mail receipts to see if his package arrived.

It’s his message in a bottle out at sea and that's enough. 

He wants that to be enough.

A month goes by and he pretends to forget he sent them. He finally finishes edits on his fourth book, publishes it, and sends her that one too. Her address is neat on the brown paper. His dedication is just inside the cover. This one is more dry.

_ This one is still for you. _

She doesn’t call or write. His publisher starts flagging articles written about the books. He makes the _New York Times _best seller list. _The_ _Herald _writes several thoughtful critiques. His publisher highlights an article in the _Washington Post _written by Danny’s former assistant. It’s a puff piece masquerading as a op-ed. An entertainment reporter asked C.J. if she had read the series of books many thought were based, albeit loosely, on Bartlet’s dream team. C.J. said, he imagined dryly (If he closed his eyes he could almost hear her voice, drowsy and rough. He could picture the lopsided slope her mouth would’ve made at hearing the question. It was his mirage, like water in the desert.), “Of course I’ve familiarized myself with them,” she said. A neat dodge, “old habits die hard.”

He sends his fifth to the publisher. 

Another article appears on his desk, this one a gift from Andy and tucked inside Huck’s baseball cleats. He gathers the kids’ luggage and stows it in his trunk before taking a moment to peruse the article. He half expects it to be a wedding announcement - Congresswoman Andrea Wyatt to marry Vaguely Successful Maryland Orioles Manager - but Andrea would’ve told him first. They were honest with each other now, about the things that mattered, in a way they never had been before. The delicate friendship they kept between them paled in comparison to the seriousness with which they, now, both took co-parenting. Instead, the article is a recap of a late night television show and written by a blogger who ‘reports’ (Toby uses the term loosely) exclusively on talk shows. A few lines about half-way down the page are underlined. 

_ Ms. Cregg-Concannon, addressed her marital status on the Johnny Hall Show Sunday by correcting Mr. Hall’s use of her name. _

_“It’s Cregg actually,” the former White House Press Secretary and Chief of Staff said, “And Yes, we’re building roads so that, among other things, we can plant wells in the _ _desert. The desert needs water. It was drier than my marriage."_

_This smarting comeback on the tail of rumors that former husband Danny Concannon had an affair with fellow Journal Correspondent Karen Wells while covering the political upheaval in Kazakhstan._

There’s a handwritten note at the bottom. _ You’re not fooling anyone, Pokey. _It’s meant as encouragement more than critique.

He sends the fifth to her. 

_ Find me if you’re in need of water. _

One of his students tells him about a fan site dedicated to his dedications. She thinks the latest one is a political statement. She’s not wrong, C.J. has been a walking political statement for years.

She doesn’t call him. She doesn’t write. 

She does show up at his doorstep.

Finally.

She stands on the extra large step that passes for the front porch of his brownstone. Her porcelain features contrast starkly against the night sky. She wears lipstick but no make up and a long button up shirt over a pair of faded jeans. Long gone are the impeccable clothes and make-up that once protected her like armor. 

She is the same but different. She is beautiful but a little broken.

Before Toby can even muster a hello, Molly has skittered in front of him, head tipped to the side and arms open, in a move that could only be derived from a combination of he and Andy.

“Aunt C.J.?”

Toby watches as C.J.’s mouth trembles before it hides behind her smile.

“Mols you’ve gotten so big.”

C.J. leans down and Molly wraps herself around her like a koala on a tree.

“Where’s baby Lillian?”

C.J.’s face fractures for a moment before smoothing over. A hand traces the soft, not quite gone, swell of her stomach, that Toby knows still makes her uncomfortable. He remembered the phone call they’d shared weeks after Lilian’s birth. _ I feel like my skin doesn’t fit anymore. _

Her shoulders roll back when she says “She’s with her dad for a couple of days. Baby Lillian and I are getting ready to move,” there is a forced levity to her tone as if she isn’t leaving him a path of bread crumbs, “Where’s Huckleberry?” 

Molly shrugs, “Huck is working on math,” she says seriously, “I already finished mine,” then with the imitation of an adult only a seven year old could manage, she adds, “Daddy made dinner. You should eat.”

C.J. can’t help but chuckle.

Toby takes C.J.’s coat and then her luggage without question. He settles her things in his guest room and hopes she won’t use it. The light of her cell-phone blinks up at him, 8 missed calls. _ Danny. _ He leaves it in her purse. 

They have dinner together, potatoes and asparagus and chicken. She helps the kids clean up and then helps them get ready for bed. Huck is asleep as soon as Toby tucks him in but Molly tugs C.J. to her bed. She hands C.J. the book off her nightstand and curls up next to her.

“_The Girl Who Dreamed the Moon,” _C.J. says, her voice adjacent to a whisper. 

Toby can’t help but watch from his place settled against the door frame. Everything about C.J. seems warm and soft, the harsh edges of work induced starvation smoothed into gentle curves. The lines around her eyes add structure to a face that had always been too naïve to suit her. His words on her lips are the strongest aphrodisiac. He’d missed it. 

Before C.J. can open the cover, Molly interrupts, “My Daddy wrote me that book Aunt C.J.,” she says proudly. (Toby is overcome by the awareness that he’s done at least _ one _thing his daughter can be proud of. Good deeds do not overwrite sin but they certainly make it easier to swallow.) Then, she adds in a whisper, her breath against C.J.’s cheek, “Mommy says he wrote Baby Lillian one too. Hers is about roads. I think he - probably -“ Molly stumbles on the word as if it is too big for her mouth, “wrote one for you.”

“I think he did,” C.J.’s eyes bore into his soul.

Later, when Molly is finally asleep, C.J. shuts the door and Toby pushes a glass of wine into her hands.

“It’s not a gift,” he jokes, “I need a drink.”

She fights him. Not the Socratic rapport he’s painstakingly instituted in his classrooms, or the elusive wit she used in the press room, but something both volatile and raw, something combustive.

“You ruined my marriage.” A toast.

“I heard Danny did that for me.”

“Fuck you.” Her voice is a harsh whisper.

“C.J. - Christ - the very idea of you, ruined mine.” His tone says _ you know that. _

“Which time?” then, with a wave of her hand as if to say _ It doesn’t matter, _she adds, “You sent me away.”

“You didn’t have to go.” 

“Why’d you write it? Why’d you send it? God Toby, I was doing good work,” C.J. washes back the words with a gulp of her drink, “I _ am _doing good work.”

“Why’d you come?”

She presses her hand across her forehead and rubs at her temples, “Love letters are beneath you.”

“They worked for Danny.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eloquent argument. I haven’t heard that one before -like three minutes ago.”

She clenches her teeth, “fuck. You.”

“Is that what brought you here?”

C.J. freezes, “You know it isn’t,” she sighs long and hard. In a practiced move she lets all the breath leave her body before taking another drink. It’s almost but not quite surrender.

“No. It isn’t.”

She stumbles onto the couch and catches herself on the edge. Toby joins her there, readily accepting the reprieve from the match of feinting and parrying they’d been engaging in in his hallway. He rubs a warm, broad hand over her thigh, down and up again. 

“Writing has become...medicinal,” Toby says slowly, awkwardly. She’s come all this way. It’s his turn to talk but he doesn’t know where to start. His voice scrapes against his own words, “I’ve learned about myself. My …” he rubs a hand over his head, “faults.”

“ '_She was brilliant and vibrant in her ire and the only person capable of humbling him' ,” _C.J. quotes.

“You-”

** **

“ ‘_She pushed him away, introduced him to a nice, fiery Protestant girl and he let her. He shouldn’t have. He should’ve become a soldier capable of battling her demons. He should’ve become a ditch digger capable of circumventing her walls. He pushed her away to California and she let him. Now he was bringing her back.’ “ _

** **

“ You read it.” It’s a statement but he can’t help the note of awe in his voice.

“Of course I read it dummy. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I ruined your marriage?”

“You didn’t.”

“I know.” 

C.J. laughs half heartedly and presses her forehead against his shoulder. Her glass of wine almost topples as the fight drains out of her. 

“You’re doing well,” the ability to completely change a conversation without giving up ground is so quintessentially C.J. that Toby can’t help but smile. She takes in his silence and then continues, “You are. You look younger than you have in years, happy, healthier.” She runs a hand over his stomach before resting her long fingers against the hard leather of his belt, “How’s Andy?”

“Andy’s good but that's not why you came.”

She inhales against his neck and smells the sandalwood cologne that has long been her favorite. Andy had preferred a more fragrant cologne that reminded C.J. of too-sweet bourbon. Toby could be gentle. At times he had been the warmest, most gentle man she had ever known. She would never describe him as sweet.

“Why did I come?” The question is tentative but real. She’s always appreciated his ability to see through her more easily than she can herself.

“I wrote five books about how much I -” he hesitates on the word, “appreciated - the work we did. How _ important _ it was. I admitted my wrongs, my mistakes,” his hand clasps over hers, calloused and warm, “I admitted the feelings we had for each other. Before. The feelings we, we always had for each other,” he swallows, “But that didn’t matter,” She chuffs and he shushes her. His hand smooths over her hair and tucks her more firmly into his shoulder, “It didn’t,” he says brusquely, “You were angry and confused. You _ weren’t wrong _. You’ve never learned how to let people in, how to be in a relationship. You never had to,” his words are familiar but his voice, once loud and crisp is now warm and soft, “Then Concannon cheated,” he says, “and it mattered.”

“You’re wrong.” 

“I’m not.”

“It’s always mattered,” C.J. sighs almost exasperated. He feels the exhale against his neck, “It’s why you were allowed to push me away. It’s what let me run. It’s always _ mattered, _Toby.”

“Why did you come?”

“You wrote five books. You wrote _ five _ books Toby. About us. All of us. Me. The President. _ Josh _. That deserved -” she flounders and sits up, moving away from him to drag out the right words, “You wrote five books. And it’s, it’s been a while since we’ve talked” She finishes lamely.

She’s standing now, glass of red wine cradled precariously in her hand. She shuffles back and forth, awkwardly beside his coffee table, nearly tripping over a stack of not yet graded papers and the kids’ backpacks. She brushes her hand over her forehead and uses it to avoid his gaze. He doesn’t stop her, doesn’t wrangle her in or take her hand.

He does repeat the question. “Why did you come?”

Her eyes bore into his and her lip quivers. She flails a hand in the air and manages to hang on to her composure. 

“C.J. - “

“_ 'Find me if you’re in need of water.' _ " She quotes. Her voice is strong and even, decided, “I’m thirsty.” The self-consciousness that creeps into her words undoes him. 

Has he not been clear? How can she be at _ all _uncertain of his feelings?

Toby manages enough control to set both of their glasses on the end table before he weaves his hand through her hair, cups the back of her head, and kisses her. In the morning he’ll question why that was the dedication that got her but now he steadies her as she trips out of her shoes. He slides a calloused hand under her shirt and against the dip of her back. 

They stumble down the hallway. C.J. buries her laughter in his shoulder when she narrowly misses bumping the door to the kids’ bedroom, then uses the distraction to start tugging at his shirt. 

Their dance is raw but comforting in its simplicity. She manages to shuck her bra into the floor before welcoming his weight on top of her. She hisses when he bites at a nipple and tugs him closer, her hand locked around the back of his neck.

He brushes promises against her skin ‘_ I’m right here’, ‘I’m not going anywhere’, ‘easy Jeanie. I’ve got you.’ _She sighs when he enters her, more in relief than anything. He presses her name against the shell of her ear. The need to make up for lost time is diminished by the fact that they aren’t quite young anymore. He finishes inside her and she completes her second orgasm of the night, before going soft against the mattress. Toby manages to press open mouthed kisses over her thighs, her stomach, and the long scar of her C-section, before pulling her against him and falling asleep. He is pleasantly surprised when he wakes in bed at 5. 2 am usually finds him in his study writing. 

Huck wants eggs for breakfast before t-ball practice. Toby sketches out the opening line for book number six on a napkin before adding butter to the skillet. He plates eggs for both Huck and Molly and looks up to see C.J. in the doorway. She’s drinking coffee and wearing his old Knicks jersey like she was made to. 

He writes a sixth book and makes a deal with his publisher for ten. A prologue (which he’s already published), an epilogue, and one for each year of Bartlett's two terms. Six down, four more to go.

C.J. turns down the eleventh offer for her autobiography. Toby finds her in his study one night after he’s tucked Molly, Huck, and Lillian into their respective beds. She’s an image in his brown leather chair, dressed in one of his white t-shirts, her long legs tucked up underneath her.

“I’m writing something different.”

He leans over the back of the chair, lays a kiss against her collar bone, and presses his hand against her heart. 

“Okay.”

She publishes her first book the week his sixth is released. 

Toby laughs at the sight that greets him when he opens the bedroom door. The pillows on their bed are anchored by their respective books. His on her side and hers on his. He tugs off his tie, worn for the thesis presentation of one of his students, and toes off his shoes before grabbing the book from his pillow.

_ The Importance of Roads _by Claudia Jean Cregg. 

The desire that it say Cregg-Ziegler hits him like a brick and settles in his stomach. He needs to start working on that. 

He opens the cover and smoothes his hand, reverently, over the dedication. 

_ To my well in the desert. You are my fight, my sanctuary, my blessing. Thank you. _

Emotions clogs his throat.

“You want a scotch Mister Mister,” C.J. says, surprising him, from her place in the doorway.

He accepts the glass from her hand and knocks most of it back in a gulp. She kisses the remnants out of his mouth.

“Hello.” She says.

“Hi.”

“Andy invited us to the game,” she says while taking off her jewelry. 

Toby cant help but smile when she drops her earrings beside his watch. She’s comfortable here; his house has become her home. 

“I told her maybe next time,” she swats at Toby when he groans, “You like baseball.”

“The orioles aren’t baseball.”

“Toby.”

“They aren’t,” C.J. wraps herself around his back and he relishes in the nip she gives his jaw, “Another time.” He concedes. 

Toby feels her grin against his skin. He notches his hand behind her neck and massages the muscles there. His beard scrapes against her cheek. 

“Lillian do okay?”

“Yeah,” C.J. gulps in a breath as if shoring up strength, “They offered him a-” she waves a hand, “show. Talk show. ‘The Full Lid with Danny Concannon.’ They film in the City, he wants to see her more,” She shrugs, “So.” 

Toby strokes his palms from her shoulders to her hands and back again, before putting his words in her ear, “We’ll figure it out.”

“It helps to know you and Andy sucked at it too. In the beginning” 

Toby nips at her neck in retaliation.

“I told her,” CJ says, studying her hands, “Lillian. That you’d take her and Molly stargazing when she got back. Huck and I will stay in the bug-free indoors and watch that baseball movie he likes.”

Toby’s mouth quips up at the corner. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna get a shower,” she starts undoing the long line of buttons on her shirt. 

The crisp fabric says she spent the bulk of the day on The Hill arguing for inclusion of infrastructure funds in an aid bill for Kundu. She argued the 8 hours she spent on the road was worth it even though the bills she wanted never seemed to Ben passed.

“I’ll join you.”

She smiles, “Tobus?”

“Yeah.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah.” He kisses the corner of her mouth.

He writes another children’s book, a story about three children who use their imagination to shape the world. They create houses out of boxes and plastic bottles and space ships out of ten cans. _ (Molly, Huck, and Lillian, reach for the stars and never stop. You are loved more than you know. You are everything). _

Then one more - this one a warning against institutionalized school prayer. (_ For Molly And Huck and Lillian, you are always welcome. You are always loved. You always belong.) _Each page shows children worshiping, at their homes, at their churches and temples, and mosques, and at their schools. A little girl in a hijab. A little boy at temple. A brother and sister praying over supper. Vibrant, watercolor pictures show the same kids playing together on baseball fields, basketball courts, and playgrounds.

It’s a beautiful story but one born from anger. Molly had come home sobbing after a teacher told her she ‘prayed wrong’ during a moment of silence. C.J. had spent the rest of the night letting Molly teach her Hebrew prayers. C.J. wasn’t very good at them but that didn’t matter. 

Toby had nearly put his fist through the wall. Instead, he sat down and wrote the story. They said ink ran through a writer's veins but now he wondered what ran through a father's.

The book is trumpeted by the Left and villainized by the Right. He turns down Concannon's offer to come on ‘The Full Lid’ but accepts Josh’s to speak at the National Prayer Breakfast. 

Halfway into the next semester he publishes the seventh book in his series. It’s released the same day C.J. gets on a plane headed for Qumar. She’s a member of the U.S. delegation aiming to address the country's human rights abuses. (_ I’m too old for this, _ she tells him before accepting the offer. _ You can’t sit quietly, it’s not in you, _ he reminds her quietly. _ This is the last time _, she declares.) 

She memorizes the dedication and lets it loop through her mind on repeat. It keeps her sane after the explosion that kills two members of their party. It keeps her calm on the much delayed flight that stalls her in her journey home. 

_ Claudia Jean, there are no words for what you mean to us. _

She can hear the joke he almost wrote _ You’ve taken all my words. My publisher will sue. _

The kids are with Andy, Lillian too, when he goes to pick C.J. up from the airport. She’s shaking so badly she can barely make it down the tarmac to meet him. Her tears soak his collar. He rubs his hands soothingly up and down her spine. That night, they claw and scrape at each other in desperation. She trips trying to drag him into the shower and he nearly suffocates himself pressing kisses against her heart, her stomach, and her thighs.

“You’re so warm,” she says, when he tucks her close. He hears “you’re not sad.”

He kisses her deeply in response, soothing her busted lip with his tongue. He waits until her breathing evens out before he scratches at the nightstand for pen and paper. He counts her breaths and writes the dedication for his eighth book: 

_I was going to wait. I can’t. Marry me. _

He publishes his eighth book on an uneventful Wednesday. Some of his students are preparing for an international Collegiate UN summit that’s only a few days away. He stays to help them prep. 

He stays to steady his nerves. He hasn’t had the best experience with proposals.

He plans to give her the book after dinner, over a good glass of wine. Intimate and simple. 

Instead, when he arrives home, admittedly late, he finds the kids asleep. C.J. too. She’s spread across their comforter, her shoes still on and her glasses skewed. A copy of his book is open in front of her.

Toby scrubs a hand over his face before chuckling. He traces a hand from her shoulders to her waist and smiles when blinks up at him.

“Where’s my ring ?” 

“That a yes?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses her, long and hard. She moans against his mouth. Her nails scratch at the back of his neck.

“Okay.”

She scrubs a hand over his jaw, smiling and teasing, “What’s next ?”

The familiar turn of phrase makes him groan and he swats at her. 

Later, after they shower, he slips the ring on her finger. It’s thin and gold with a cluster of gems in the middle. The light from the bathroom throws the colors on the floor and they bleed together like stained glass. She doesn’t believe in diamonds, something about the black diamond trade and child labor. He doesn’t think one diamond will make a difference but he respects her dedication. 

She frames his face in her hands. He feels the cold gold against his cheek. When she kisses him, he knows he did something right.

She teases him, saying she doesn’t want to get married until he finishes his books in case there are more surprises. She doesn’t mean it and he kisses his comeback against her mouth more often than not. 

He publishes his eighth novel (_ to the woman who inspires me every day with her drive to change the world. May someone better than I write poetry about your triumphs.) _She smacks him in the shoulder with the book and teases him about his one time fling with Tabitha Fortis.

"You were jealous.”

“I was happy for you.”

“Yeah.”

Her father dies before he can walk her down the aisle. Toby sits with the body for a day before the burial. Tal wasn’t Jewish but they’d become close over the years and it feels like the right thing to do. C.J. writes the eulogy, speaks at the funeral despite the fact that her brothers don’t. Toby holds her hand and bounces Lillian on his knee when she gets restless. 

“Toby?” Lillian asks, her vowels over exaggerated. At three years old all her pronunciations are unique. Her words would be difficult to understand it he didn’t spend so much time with her.

“Yeah?”

“The people keep saying I’m so big but I’m smaller than Molly.”

His mouth quirks up at the corner and he hides his smile in her hair. 

“You’re bigger than you were when they last saw you. You’ve grown,” he says, “Does that make sense ?”

She nods, it’s an exaggerated motion that sends her curls bouncing against his face, “yeah.”

His ninth book is released the same day they move into their new house. It's the type of historic home in the suburbs neither of them could have afforded on a government salary. It has a proper front porch and enough bedrooms for each of the kids to have their own. C.J. doesn't keep an office at home, instead choosing to work from the kitchen table on her laptop or steal Toby's study when she needs to. She likes this season of her life that, largely, allows her to leave work at work. 

** **

The ninth book was the hardest for Toby to write. It's his atonement, his final confession, and his benediction. 

_ To flawed people doing their best. To good intentions and apologies. To transparency. To Claudia, Huck, Molly, Lillian, and Andrea, without whom I would still be a lesser man. Thank you. I love you. _

C.J. cries when she reads it, the emotion drips down her face like rain drops. She kisses his neck and whispers in his ear, "you're a good man." 

(He can't help but hear, "you are not sad.")

His tenth book is a struggle. He no longer feels the need to write like he’s running out of time. Different things, _ good _ things (C.J. and the kids, family dinners, butchered prayers, temple and church, little league practice and chess club and speech and debate) fill his life now.

Once, Toby had bristled at the idea of being a father. He had wondered if he'd love his kids. He'd wondered if he was willing to sacrifice the political capital that was so important to him.

** **

He’s become a good father ( a good teacher, a good husband) and it _ matters _.

If he's honest with himself, he doesn't know where to start on the epilogue.

In the end, its three conversations that become the novel's compass rose.

The first one is with Molly. 

** **

It’s an ordinary Thursday evening and a chunk of free time after softball practice but before dinner finds Molly sitting at the kitchen table studying _ something _ . She has text-books spread from one end to the other. Toby sees her fifth grade US history textbook among other titles. _ Religion in the Middle East _ which she has borrowed from his study and C.J.'s book, _ The Importance of Roads _ as well as s copy of _ The Muslim Experience _ look up at him from the table. 

** **

Molly is scribbling down notes on a legal pad in both pen and colored pencil. Her thoughts turn the stale yellow paper into a bold, rainbow mandala. Toby watches as she rips out a page and crumples it in frustration. It makes him think of Sam.

Toby doesn't prompt her, doesn't ask her what she's working on. As a kid he had always been frustrated, annoyed, and embarrassed when his parents hocked him about whatever he was writing.

** **

Molly volunteers it when she's ready. 

"Dad," She says, half an hour later. Toby has long since started on dinner and turns a burner on the stove down before he faces her. Molly rearranges herself in her chair and pushes her bangs out of her face; ink smears across her cheek in the process, "My History teacher seems to think everywhere needs to be America."

Toby smiles. He thinks of a story Abbey told him once about the night Jed accepted his Nobel. He’d spent the party afterward discussing Ellie's mastery of her multiplication tables. It struck Toby as the kind of thing good fathers did. President Bartlet was an economist thrilled to see his daughter’s mastery of numbers. He’d been consumed by excitement as if it implied Ellie would follow in his footsteps. 

** **

Toby’s kids liked the Orioles more than the Yankees but they were already trying to change the world.

"What do you think?" He asks. 

She sighs. The harsh exhale is all Andy but the thoughtful way she studies her notes with her lip between her teeth reminds him of C.J. 

"I think if we let people practice their own religion - If we try to understand instead of," she fishes for the right words, "instead of forcing western-ism on them - that the world would be a more peaceful place."

** **

Toby smiles, "Yeah."

Molly's dimple peaks out at him, "How do I do that, Dad?"

** **

“I don’t know, Mols,” he says honestly.

** **

“I’m going to figure it out.”

** **

The second conversation is with C.J..

** **

Columbia spends over a year trying to get her on their staff. In the end she turns down their offer for a full schedule but agrees to a short series of lectures on the role of messaging in international policy. She still spends her days working with Franklin Hollis. Together they build roads and wells and develop infrastructure in the most forgotten, rural areas of the world. This year they’re making headway in the Middle East. 

** **

She’s working on another book, something about the experience of motherhood around the world. She’s been closed lipped about it and instead of prying Toby plies her with coffee and long kisses when he finds her in his study burning the midnight oil.

** **

It’s a rare kid-free evening that finds them watching a bad tv-movie together. He’s drinking a glass of scotch and she’s tucked up against him on the couch. He can tell her mind is running a mile a minute. She fidgets more than she sits still. 

** **

Finally she turns to him and says, “do you ever want to go back?”

** **

He scoffs, his eyes wide, “to the White House?”

** **

Her shrug says both ‘yeah’ and ‘you were pardoned.’

** **

“I really haven’t.”

** **

“I know we’ll always be,” she steals his glass and takes a gulp of the scotch before continuing, “politically minded but-“

** **

“But?” Toby prompts. C.J. recognizes his careful smile as the expression he uses when he thinks he’s wading into a war.

** **

C.J. twists her fingers in her lap, “I’m happy with our life. So happy,” she says, “I needed a break to learn, to learn what life is like,” her chuckle is self-deprecating, “I could never go back - you know - like we were. 23 hours a day. But some days I think I could do more if I was closer to the inside.” The end is almost a whisper. She’s scared to disappoint him.

** **

A conversation they’d had when she’d first found him again comes back to Toby. “_ He didn’t tell me to leave the White House. He told me the opposite but I knew it was what he wanted. Sometimes - I’m not sure I should’ve left. I don’t know.” _

** **

“You know Molly is reading your book?” He asks.

** **

“Yeah?”

** **

“Yeah. She uh,” Toby says, taking a drink of his scotch. He swirls the taste around in his mouth, “ wants to bring peace to the world through infrastructure and religious tolerance.”

** **

C.J. smiles. Confusion is evident in the way the corner of her mouth tips up, “okay?,” she prompts.

** **

“The work you’re doing,” Toby says over the emotion clogging his throat, “_ is _ making a difference. You may not have gotten your aid bill but you’re shaping minds, Claudia,” he’s careful to hold her gaze when he says, “But if you want to do more, then I think that’s what you should do.”

** **

“Yeah?” She asks him hesitantly.

** **

“Yeah.” His voice is rough and warm, “we’ll figure it all out.”

** **

“I doubt the opportunity will present itself,” she shrugs, “Do you want to go back?”

** **

Toby is honest when he says, “I don’t know.”

** **

The third conversation is with Sam.

** **

They’re late getting to the restaurant.

** **

Danny was twenty minutes late to pick up Lillian. The temper tantrum she’d then thrown in the driveway hadn’t helped any. In the end, C.J. had given in and gotten Lillian’s very worn, very favorite copy of _ The Girl Who Made Roads _ while Danny and Toby stood in the driveway in silence. Danny had openly stiffened at the sight of pale blue book that boasted _ Tobias Ziegler _on the front cover before giving his ex-wife a very long kiss on the cheek. Toby planned to have words with Danny when he picked Lillian up on Monday. Toby had gone through his stint as an absentee father, to be sure, but Danny had had more than enough time to shape up and was getting worse instead of better. 

** **

Before Danny had even pulled out of the driveway , Andy had stopped by to pick up Huck’s baseball cleats. She and C.J. had ended up in a fifteen minute conversation about messaging on a family support bill which resulted in C.J. writing out some phrasing on the back of a field-trip permission form and promising to help, if Andy needed anything, until her communications director got back from maternity leave.

** **

“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning that you’re helping my ex-wife with messaging on her campaign?” Toby asks as he opens the car door and _ finally _, ushers C.J. inside the restaurant.

** **

C.J. rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in the way that says she knows she’s guilty but she’s not going to apologize for it, “It was a press release Toby, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

** **

“A press release? _ A _press release?” He says loudly, even has he takes C.J.s coat. 

** **

C.J.s argument is lost in the kiss she gives Sam’s cheek, “Hey Sam,” she says before continuing, “we discussed messaging on a few things but nothing -” If Sam is alarmed by the argument happening in front of him, he doesn’t let on, “substantial.”

** **

“Nice to see you, Toby,” Sam says patting him on the back collegially.

** **

Toby returns the gesture half heartedly and pulls out C.J.’s chair. She picks up the menu and Toby pushes it back on the table. He takes a long steadying breath and continues to ignore Sam at the other end of the table. 

** **

“I don’t mind that you’re helping, Andy. It’s maybe a little disconcerting” Toby says. He rubs a hand over his head, “I don’t want you to think you have to hide it from me.”

** **

C.J. kisses him, softly and sweetly. It’s an apology, “Okay.”

** **

“Okay,” Toby clears his throat, “What are we doing here Sam?”

** **

He expects the Sam he’d worked with half a decade before, the Sam that would’ve spoken softly and ophoscated. Instead Sam says, “I’m running for president. I want you on my team.”

** **

The directness has C.J. choking on her water, “ I heard about the exploratory committee,” she says when she gets her breath back.

** **

Sam smiles. He’s smoother than C.J. remembers, more confident. His clothes are better too, the dark blue suit he wears compliments his cornflower blue shirt and patterned red tie. He_ looks_ like a presidential candidate. “Josh is staying on as Chief of Staff. I was hoping you’d come on board as communications director.”

** **

“Sam -” 

** **

“You were pardoned,” Sam says before Toby can argue. 

** **

“Yeah,” Toby rubs a hand over his forehead, “but I’m not interested.” He says softly.

** **

C.J. studies him over her water, her smile soft.

** **

“Toby -”

** **

“No Sam,” Toby says firmly, but not unkindly, “I’m not.” He smooths his hands over his shirt and covers C.J.’s hand where it’s come to rest on his knees.

** **

“But?” Sam pries.

** **

“I’ll,” Toby hedges, “come in for the big speeches if you want or if you get in a bind,” he traces a thumb down the back of C.J.’s hand.

** **

“C.J?” Sam almost whines, “convince him?”

** **

She waves him off, reaches over the table, steals the pen from Sam's pocket, and writes a name on a napkin before passing it to Toby. He huffs before nodding. _ Will Bailey. _

_"_You two are intollerable," Sam says, "What happened to years of will-they-wont-they tension?"

"I married her," Toby says. He steals a roll from the middle of the table before continuing, "but at least you know, she's not a Republican." He says flatly.

** **

"Now hold on-" Sam argues, only to be interrupted when their waitress arrives to take their orders.

Sam raises a brow at Toby’s order of a salad before his steak but C.J. seems non-pulsed. 

** **

“Have you thought about Will?” She asks.

** **

“Bailey?,” Sam says surprised, “he’s out running lost-case races for the DNC. Josh asked him back more than once. He’s not interested.”

** **

“Do you have a National Security Advisor? Get Commander Kate Harper and ask Will again.”

** **

Sam laughs, “Okay,” he nods, “but that doesn’t help me through the campaign. C.J. -”

** **

“Sure it does. There’s still foreign policy in a campaign,” C.J. reaches over to cover Sam’s hand with her own, “ask Kate.”

** **

“Okay.”

** **

“You’re going to be so good, Sam,” C.J. says fondly,

** **

“Thank you, but you’re not off the hook.”

** **

C.J. furrows her brow, “What do you mean?”

** **

“I’ll need help with policy on the campaign. With the wars in the Middle East - America, the _ world _ \- needs a president that can be a global leader. I need an advisor on global policy that doesn’t see military engagement as the only option. And when I win,” he says bluntly, “I’ll need a Secretary of State.”

** **

Toby finishes his tenth book, a week after Sam is sworn in and more than a month after his deadline. He drops the kids off at school in the morning and spends the bulk of the day moving C.J. into her new office. She accepts the coffee he brings her and lets him kiss the taste out of her mouth.

"You're going to help me keep my head on straight?"

"Yeah."

** **

He's happy with the epilogue. He sums the book up in it's dedication. This time it's to everyone. 

** **

_ What’s next? _

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think - comments and prompts appreciated. Tumblr - seekennedywrite


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